Do you wanna hear a rumor about a celebrity that is totally true? Are you sure? Awesome. Rob Reiner picks up migrant workers from the Home Depot parking lot and pays then to choke him in his shower. 100% true story.  

Isn’t that an absolutely fascinating complete fact?  

Most complete facts are. Like this one:  The Grammys are on as I type this. My television, however, is off. You can deduce from these factors one of two things, and they go like this, a) that I am sitting in the Grammy audience, typing this on a laptop I guess, or, b) I’m not watching the damn things at all.  And if you picked answer “a”, well, you’re retarded. That’s what you are.

I haven’t gone to the damn Grammys since 2002, when Usher puked on my shoes. Since then, I’ve ignored the Grammy’s completely (whether or not that actually happened–which it possibly might have).   But I ignore this year’s Grammys most completely and especially, despite all of the drama that is sure to ensue. Such as? Well.

Will Amy Winehouse be let into the country to perform–or did she flunk her pee test again (and did her pee eat through the plastic cup, the doctors hand, the floor, the topsoil, the bedrock, and is at this moment on a collision course with China? It’d  serve China right, sending us all those damn children’s toys chock full of lead. I’m just saying), and/or will Michael Jackson dare to not show his face?  

I wonder. But not really.  

Because something much sadder, and much more important has happened, and it is the tragic death of that guy who played the brave, grizzled, chain-smoking police chief that gets bitten in half in Jaws. For all we know he got bitten in half in real life, for the coroner has not released his cause of death, although being 75 will often do one in all on its own. Which he was. Poor old sumbitch. Bitten in half by that toothy old sea bitch, time.  

R.I.P. 

Adrian Ryan

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Drugs. Well, they’re awesome, aren’t they?

Of course they are.

They must be. Totally awesome. Awesomest.  

Awesomer, indeed,  than fabulous careers, fame, money, beauty, and teeth, otherwise how to explain Amy Winehouse? She’s more famous for her drugging than her singing, and Evel Kneivel himself couldn’t jump the jagged caverns in her smile (or the holes in her arms), were he alive, which he isn’t. And that’s the good news.  

But, sadly, the drugs can have all sorts of unexpected and rather twirley side effects too—and not just the regular old side effects like all your teeth falling out and going to jail. Side effects like the dreaded Not Able to Get into America Syndrome, which afflicts Amy Winehouse as we speak, and Always Getting Confused with Claire Danes Syndrome, which Kirsten Dunst suffers from. And yes, Claire…I mean KIRSTEN…is a big wretched druggie too, you betcher boots. (I bet you didn’t see that coming.) Especially when she is at Sundance, apparently. Which isn’t saying much because I’ve bee to Sundance, baby, and EVERYONE but EVERYONE at Sundance is a coked-out disaster: it’s a miracle any films can be seen behind all the mountians of coke. It’s whatcha call tradition.

But apparently poor Cla…I mean KIRSTEN, dammit…partied a little too hardy this year, as they say, and she cracked. Broke down. Choked up. And now she’s in rehab, and yes, she’s in exactly the SAME rehab that Eva Mendez is in as I type this, and, yes, that’s the SAME rehab that Linsday Lohan (remember her? Me neither!) was confined to all last summer, and what does this have to do with Amy Winehouse not getting into the country?

Excellent question.  

Amy has been denied a visa, which she apparently needs, to get back into this country, and all on the basis of her relentless hoovering and smoking and injecting and so forth. She was supposed to sing at the Grammys, but now she’ll just have to stay home and smoke crack with her cat and lose some more teeth. As usual.  Poor Grammys.

In other “news”: Hugh Heffner, who was Moses’ towel boy, has announced that his girlfriend is pregnant, and don’t try to tell me some kind of drugs weren’t involved in THAT charming scenario. Don’t you even dare.  

Yay..I mean…boo…drugs!

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I’m going to have to break my promise again. I beg your pardon. I am an Indian promiser. That’s what I am.

But it can’t be helped, it won’t be helped, I JUST have to say SOMETHING about BRITNEY freaking SPEARS!

I can’t not pay attention. And neither can you, dammit.  Stop looking at me like that.

Well, the whole affair to date has gotten so God-darned awful, I just HAVE to say something. Lucky you. And what I haveto say: It’s all like an unlikely bad soap opera. That’s what it is. It’s hard to put into words just exactly how wretched the situation is.

But allow me an attempt:  It’s Anna Nicole Smith awful. Yes, THAT awful. Okay, the story so far, as I understand it (and I understand it good and plenty), Britney’s, as it were, “mother and father”, have filed for a restraining order against her former manager, a creepy man called Sam Lutfi.

Now, I, like you, had absolutely no clue what a Sam Lutfi was, like, ten minutes ago, but I know now, dammit, and what I know is that Sam Lutfi is is a freakin’ Blackbeard in a $5,000 watch that Britney bought him. I’m telling you.   

According the restraining order, which was obtained by flying monkeys in powdered wigs (or maybe I just dreamed that part–I drink, you see), this Sam Lufti Monster was secretly drugging Britney in an insidious plot to maintain control of her mind and her forty million dollar empire.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Apparently, he dosed her with a brain-twirling concoction of prescription insomnia medication and anti-psychotic pills—he even crushed them up and slipped them into her food on the sly, like some nightmarish Disneyland witch.  

The poison effect of such a terrible potion.. given by such a terrible man for such terrible reasons…were naturally devastating on poor Britney’s fragile mind, and the reports I’m getting now claim that her doctors are fixin’ to put her in some sort of induced coma to try to heal her damaged brain!   Terrible. I’m speechless, I tell you. Do you hear me? Speechless.   And Sam? Well, damning evidence is popping up aplenty to support the terrible claims, and the restraining order was granted. On report clams that “Sam had told Britney that she was an unfit mother, a piece of trash and a whore, that she cares more about Adnan, her current boyfriend, than she cares about her kids, and that she does not deserve the kids then he said if she died, he’d piss on her grave.” Charming.  Anyhoozits, them’s the details to date. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  

In other news: The toxicology reports on Health Ledger say that he died of too many prescription drugs, just like my grandma did. I didn’t know Heath and my grandma had so much in common. I wonder if they’ve met up there yet.

Well. That’s a maudlin thought.

Adrian Ryan

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Well, I’ve calmed down, thank you for asking, and today is a bright and fresh new day. Let us embrace it by, as I promised yesterday, not mentioning, um, Princess Crazypants.

Besides, if you don’t think anything interesting is happening in the universe of celebrite except Bri…well, That Wretched GIRL…you’re as crazazy as she is! Check it out: 

Today Paris Hilton cried. Cried! 

Pinch me Loretta, for it’s almost too funny to be real, but the dizzy biznitch BURST into TEARS and blubbered like a broken baby—Bwaaaa..wa, wa, waaaaaaaaaaaa—and frankly, it was fabulous.  And if this isn’t butterscotch scrumptious enough for you, well. There is full photographic and video evidence of the event, to commemorate it for future generations. And if THAT isn’t good enough, well, you’re sick. But there is still something better.

Just guess who made her cry? Guess!  (I command you!)

Right. 50 Cent!  50 CENT!!!

Outstanding.

Here is what happened:  50 Cent was rapping or whatever. Rap, rap rap! It was during some swanky and, as they say, “star-studded” Super Bowl pre-party thingy that was held in, for some unfathomable reason, Scottsdale, Arizona. (Is that where the Super Bowl lives? I’m clueless.) During his performance, Paris, ever the presumptuous little snatch, thought it would be a good idea to rush the stage and treat the audience to a lovely and whoreish dance. Dance, dance, dance!

Delightful!

Mr. Cent, however, never to be upstaged by a Hilton, paused mid-rhyme, halted the music, and demanded that the stupid biznitch get, and I do quote, the “[bleep]”off his “[bleeping]“ stage, thank you madam!

Indeed!

Well, Paris doesn’t like to be yelled at unless it’s for money, so she broke down like a dairy mule and wept herself a salty river to swim her humilliated ass out on. Which she promptly did. Witnesses say that she hadn’t cried that much since she went to prison, which reminded me that I had already totally forgotten that she had been to prison, that’s how damaged my attention span is. I blame television.   Wait. What? Cry cry cry, swim swim swim!  And it will all be on YouTube forever.  Thank you, Jesus.

Adrian Ryan

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Is there anything happening in the world that is not Britney Spears, Britney Spears, BRITNEY SPEARS?  

No? Well. I didn’t really think so anyway. According to a source: 

“In a heavy British accent, a ballistic Brit screamed (about her parents), “I’m so sick of all of this they can have the goddamn house and stick it up their f**king asses. Actually, no they can’t.”  

Oh dear. Oh, dear dear dear. And, then, um:  

“The judge in the hearing today has issued a restraining order against Sam Lutfi — ordering him to stay away from Britney Spears.” 

But, uh, then:  

“A Los Angeles court commissioner has placed Britney Spears and her estate under temporary conservatorship. That means her financial assets and other holdings will be managed by a conservator — the conservators are Jamie Spears and attorney Andrew Wallet.” 

And, well, then…oh screw it.  I can’t take it anymore. 

In anything else: Eva Mendez, who is an actress with very large boobs, has checked herself into rehab because she it’s the hot thing to do, and apparently she’s riddled with substance abuse issues that may or may not have anything to do with her very large boobs. Coincidentally, she is in the same rehab that totally failed Lindsay Lohan and her boobs last summer. Isn’t that nice? 

Then! It seems as if Kirsten Dunst, who I ALWAYS confuse with Claire Danes, isn’t going insane, like everybody said she was. Well, I never said she was, but apparently some other people did, and if you heard that, well darnit, it’s just not true. Not true, ya see! So stop poking her with sticks and asking her to weave baskets.  And that’s not about Britney either. So. Hooray! Just for that I hope Claire Danes never goes insane! I mean Kirsten Dunst! Whatever!  

Finally: Madonna has apparently grown a penis. “It’s bloody huge!” says an apparently British source. “It just sprung up one night, neat as you please! And there it is all big and hairy like—I can’t say I didn’t expect something like this all these years, the way she is you know, but, blimey! You should see it! And the children? Oh, they love it: how they poke it with sticks and laugh…” And yes I made that entire last thing up. But aren’t you glad it wasn’t about Britney fuckucking Spears?  Aren’t YOU??

Adrian Ryan

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Well, the big news today is that Heath Ledger is still dead.

Horrible. But I’m keeping vigil. I’ll never stop. Never.  

Stop looking at me like that. Have you never loved?  

Besides that, Britney Spears is insane. It’s totally official. She is “in for observation” (as they say), which in medical terminology means, “We’re going to charge you $750,000 dollars to tell you what you already know—you crazazy, biznitch!” (Somebody call Michael Moore! Oh…no…please don’t, he eats all the pickles.) And this is a very, well, something or other, situation, indeed.

(Adjectives fail.)  

For you see, if the so-called “observation” goes badly, well. She could be locked up against her will indefinitely. As in “for life.” And say what you will about that poor girl, that would be, as they say, the pits. And if it goes “well?” They’ll charge her double, let her out, and she’ll just keep being crazazy.

This doesn’t look like it is going to happen though, as the hospital has already classified her as GD—“greatly disabled”.  

Well. At least she’ll get the good parking spaces now.  

It’s the silver linings that keep us going.  

What I think? Thanks for asking. I think that Britney does not need expensive quacks quacking around her addled little head; what she needs is the world’s strongest coffee enema (call Starbutt’s—we need a double-tall Crapuccino, stat!”), a good slap across the face, a restraining order against all paparazzi, and three years camping in the Swiss Alps with a heard of Ethiopian orphans, survivor style. Then she needs to get a real driver’s license and another one of those little red string Kabala bracelet thingies. Straighten her right up.  Otherwise, you know. She’s just gonna die and junk. Heaven forbid.  Mark my words.  

But something very strange, here: There is a very hot actor called Justin Chambers, and he plays Dr. Alex Karev on “Grey’s Anatomy.” (I never watch.) Well…um…I don’t know how to say this, but he checked himself in to the loony bin today too, to “get some help” with some sleep and anxiety issues he has. The weird thing? He checked into the exact same psych ward as Britney. Indeed. UCLA Medical Center. And what, exactly do you make of that? Coincidence? Chance? Are they secretly screwing, or going to screw? Or is Britney so powerful a trendsetter, she has made madness the new teacup poodle?

Yes. That’s what I think.  

Speaking of people who are going to die: Amy Winehouse. Even her poor old mum said so in an interview with the BBC. “If my ickle girl don’t stop wif the drugs and the ‘eroine and all, she’ll be dead in a year, she will!” she said, and then she sold me a meatpie and a lump of coal for three farthings, ten. Then she sang, “The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain” for ten pence more. Lovely voice. A bargain.

Poor Amy Winehouse.  

Adrian Ryan

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Oh Jesus. No. Oh, sweet Jesus, please no. They got to Bart. Are you listening to me? THEY GOT BART!!!

Bloody Alien bastards!

Observe:

“Actress Nancy Cartwright, the voice behind cartoon character Bart Simpson, has been awarded Scientology’s Patron Laureate Award after she donated $10 million to the faith in 2007. Cartwright’s gift — almost two times her annual salary from “The Simpsons” — puts her top of a list of celebrity benefactors, who have handed over their hard-earned cash to the Church of Scientology. She gave even more than Tom Cruise — who is reported to be the controversial religion’s second-in-command — who has donated $5 million in the last four years.”

She gave more to the Church of Scientology than even Tom Cruise? The force is strong with this one.

And you read that right: Bart Simpson gave 10 million dollars to the Scientologists. Because they need it. To fund all the good they do. Fighting Xenu. And the evil alien spirits that make you smoke and screw your grandmother and give you migraines. And so forth. But that’s hardly all:

“Kirstie Alley gave $5 million last year and has picked up the Diamond Meritorious Award. Fellow followers John Travolta and Kelly Preston gave $1 million each and were awarded the Gold Meritorious Award, while Priscilla Presley was handed the Patron Award for a donation of $50,000.”

Well. Whatever. We knew Kirstie Alley, John Travolta, Pricilla and that other chick were all huge freaks, so. No big surprises there, I guess.

In other space cases: Wesley Snipes is in trial for a grand and complicated tax evasion scheme. His lawyers have pleaded insanity. “Kooky, crazy and loony is not a crime,” his lawyer argued, and the jury agreed, but they sentenced him to the gas chamber anyway for being a black man, which IS illegal in Florida. And most of this story is true.

Adrian Ryan

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Sources are saying (because that’s what sources do-they say things) that Angelina and Brad are, dear Mother of Mercy, pregnant. As in, with child. Well, more Angelina, technically speaking, than Brad, but you know what I mean. Pregnant! They’ve got half of a Malaysian orphanage on back order, and now she’s pumping out more of her own biological brood? Is this woman a Mormon or what?  Honestly. I demand an answer.  

Does she have ANY idea of what the CARBON EMESSIONS are? Does she know how much of them she is responsible for by procreating like this? From burned fossil fuels? Electricity? Entropy? Does she understand what she is unleashing upon this ever-warming world by bringing (and/or nurturing and/or supporting) even more digestive tracts into it? Does she know how much jet fuel she alone expends every time she goes to get the mail? Let alone the rest of her high-rolling family; a family that she just keeps making bigger and richer and bigger and richer and bigger and richer? If she had been a responsible human being, and hadn’t adopted those poor children (God love ‘em) and dragged them into her rich American lifestyle, do you know what they’d be doing right now? Not shopping and driving around in SUVs with the DVD players in their Nikes and their GAP clothes that their blind and probably polio infected relatives back home slaved to make for 20 cents a week, that’s for sure. They’d be sitting in ditches, eating the flies in their boogers, trying to outrun Sally Struthers.  

I think somewhere here I lost my point.  

Then: Britney Spears got bored of acting crazy, so she bought a car instead. A Mercedes of some sort. She’s another one, with the carbon emissions. The crazy, crazy carbon emissions!  

Suddenly, somewhere else: Experts and sources and sourcesperts and exerces all agree: Lindsay Lohan is a drinky-drinky freak again! (God love her.) Reports are flooding in from every watery corner of the ever-watery tabloid press, and they all insist that Lindsay is swilling hooch from the bottle like a flapper on the lam, and wailing at people like a banshee for no good reason other than she’s Lindsay Lohan, godammit, quit gawking and get out of my way!  

None of us saw this coming. None of us.

Adrian Ryan

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Um. Really. I just don’t know what to say. Except, “Why, God! Why is there no justice in this world! Why can’t the children roam safe and free! WHY!?” maybe. Look:  

“Pop superstar MICHAEL JACKSON has vowed to “surprise” his loyal fans with a host of celebrity collaborations on the remake of his hit album THRILLER. The singer will release a 25th anniversary edition of the 1982 LP later this year. And Jackson has promised a number of big names will feature on the release. He says, “I’m coming back. And I’ve got a very special treat for all of my fans. “I have been recording Thriller: 25th Anniversary, with a lot of surprise guests.”  

Surprise guests! Like no 12 year old boys!  

Yeah, that’s be a surprise. A big mother fuggin surprise.  

Elsewhile: The world went totally insane today as some agency that I’ve never heard of announced that it shall, in all seriousness, award Britney Spears their Best New Album of the Year Award. This, of course, is pointless, as at this point she thinks she’s a lemon. (And where is Madonna in all this? I ask you.) Experts agree that it is all probably just some mad scheme Paris Hilton cooked up to get Britney alone on stage to accept the phony award so she and her pals can dump a bucket of pig’s blood on her head so she’ll snap and make everyone explode with her hellish telekinetic powers. But I think that’s a little too original for Paris Hilton. Who has “man feet”. Or so her uncle says. No kidding. Man feet.  

Um…and how does HE know, exactly? Exactly.  

And Madonna has her own problems. Believe it.  

Anyhoo. 

Adrian Ryan

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Carol Channing. Well. The last time we heard from her, which I bet you thought was the last time we’d ever hear from her without a Ouija Board (me too!), she had risen from the grave to reclaim her stolen dress and to drag the thief screaming to hell. (Believe it.) But, lo! We are hearing from her again somehow (a miracle of modern geriatric medicine!), but her tune is pretty much the same: She’s been robbed…and she’s completely incoherent about it!  

Now, before we proceed, and for the benefit of those few sad souls who are younger than 85 and are not screaming homosexuals, Carol Channing was whatcha call a legend. Old Hollywood. A Star. Today she is a raisin, a puff of dust in a white wig, rather frightening. Still, I’m not saying she’s not fabulous–she is—but that’s just my inner screaming homosexual coming out. Again. Guurl. Whatever. The point is, she’s a famous old broad (famous enough to even have her own Wikipedia entry, I bet! I’m too lazy to look!), and, baby…she attracts crime like a Guatemalan hooker. Last time we checked in, her bazillion-dollar “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” dress had been stolen, and then mysteriously returned. This time, she was held up in a bank, at gun point, in a crowd, just like a scene from a corny old Hollywood movie, which leads me to suspect that the whole thing was a big stupid publicity stunt, and something Tom Cruise would do before a movie release. but what the hell does Carol Channing need publicity for? Her wake? She’s practically transparent.  

Well. If New Kidds on the Block can make a comeback, I guess there’s hope for anyone. Even corpses. Which brings us back to Carol. The story:  

Carol says, “Well, along with a lot of other people, I’ve been robbed, we just bought a new house. It’s really the first house I’ve ever had and not a hotel. This is our house, and they robbed us.”  

Well. That was very confusing, wasn’t it. But considering that humanity didn’t even evolve the gift of language until she was a teenager, she holds her own, I guess.  

Lastly: You know? I just bet Britney Spears did something today. Just, you know….something. Don’t you wonder what it was?  

I don’t.

Adrian Ryan

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